


Hoses, Masks, and Canisters

by Findswoman



Series: The Gand Series [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Gand - Freeform, Gand Findsman, Gen, Vignette, respirator mask
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:40:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24664765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Findswoman/pseuds/Findswoman
Summary: A Gand Findsmaster briefs his two apprentices on how to use their respirator equipment for the first time.
Relationships: Zuckuss & Original Character(s)
Series: The Gand Series [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1783291
Kudos: 2





	Hoses, Masks, and Canisters

**Author's Note:**

> Written in October 2016 for my [Poetry Inspiration Challenge](http://boards.theforce.net/threads/poetry-inspiration-challenge.50028084/) at JCF Fanfic, in which I received Henry Reed's [“Naming of Parts.”](https://allpoetry.com/Naming-of-Parts) Also a bit of a fanon study on Wookieepedia's ["breath mask" entry](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Breath_mask/Legends).  
>  Thanks to Kahara_the_Ghostly_Galoomp for beta reading.

“Now, your respirators, please, and turn this way, if you will.”  
  
The two apprentices began to unbundle their respirator gear from its storage pouches. Then they swiveled their seats to face their Findsmaster, who already held his own gear. He continued.  
  
“Now, the first thing to do is to double check the tightness of the hose connectors. Intake hose . . . upper, lower . . . there. Outtake hose . . . upper, lower . . . there. Ammonia canister . . . perhaps a little tighter . . . there. All secure and in order. No risks can be taken here, since even the tiniest opening will expose your lungs to toxic oxygen.  
  
“Next, check the canister. It should be full, and the liquid inside should be anywhere from light green to light blue, and bubbling slightly, like this . . . There was a Findsmaster once who described it as looking like Madman’s Tears, though his was a Flyssruk, which use the hexa-aqua-cupric process, as you may know, which gives them a bluish tinge, and yours are from Grenn-Aulun, which uses the penta-chloro-phosphic process. Then there are the Grenn-Mygra heavy-duty models, which one must hold up to one’s earhole in order to listen for the effervescence . . . But in any case. If the liquid in your canister is at all yellow, or if it is not bubbling, or if there is excessive mineral buildup at the bottom, dispose of it immediately in the hazardous materials receptacle. There is a crate of spare canisters in the cargo hold.”  
  
“There seems to be . . . something _on_ this one.” The senior apprentice, male, scraped with a curved brown claw at a gray-white mineral crust that encircled the intake connector of his canister.  
  
“Oh yes, that is normal. Simply scrape it off.” The apprentice did so. “That is a normal result of reactivity in certain atmospheres. Whoever wore that last probably was in the vapor-crystal mines below R’gnnath, the Mists only know why . . . At any rate, buildup on the outside is of no concern. It is only when the buildup is _inside_ the canister, where it can impede the chemical process and . . . well, you certainly can guess the rest.  
  
“At any rate. The next step is to secure the gas processing unit to your person. It seems as though _you_ ”—he looked again at the senior apprentice—“have already affixed yours to the back of your harness. Good. And as for _you_ ”—he turned to the junior apprentice, female—“simply keep yours in its storage pouch and place it over your shoulders on your back—you’ll need to tighten the straps a bit more so it doesn’t slip off—there, good. Oh yes, and it is vitally important that the gas processing unit not be activated until you enter the airlock.  
  
“Now, secure the canister. In your case”—he spoke again to the older apprentice—“you will use the securement straps on your harness . . . yes, that should be tight enough . . . and as for yours, perhaps”—to the younger apprentice—“well, it may be best simply to place it at the top of the storage pouch. Could you assist her with that, please?”  
  
The senior apprentice obeyed, unzipping the pouch on his younger companion’s back and carefully placing her canister inside. She glanced back toward him as he did so, only to turn away again the moment his eyes caught hers.  
  
“And next,” continued the Findsmaster, “take the collar assembly—it should already be attached to the intake and outtake hoses—take the collar assembly in both hands. Place it over your head”—he demonstrated with his own—“and adjust it so that it fits snugly around your neck and fully covers both neck and jawline . . . good . . . oh dear, that is very slightly too large on you, isn’t it?” He looked at the junior apprentice. “No matter, simply pull up the collar of your robe to pad it underneath . . . there, that should suffice.  
  
“Now, at last, the mask. This is the final stage and in some ways the most difficult, as each Gand’s mandibles are shaped slightly differently and not all masks fit equally well with all mandible shapes. Grenn-Aulun masks generally fit a fairly wide range, though some Southern Non-Breathers—  
  
“But no matter, since neither of you is a Southern Non-Breather. First of course, you must attach it to the collar unit, making sure the intake and outtake connectors are aligned properly—no, no, young one”—to the junior apprentice—“ _that’s_ the intake connector and _that’s_ the outtake connector—there, there you are, good. Now, fold it upward into position over your mandibles, and then—and this is the part that can be slightly . . . uncomfortable . . . at first—interlock it with your upper labrum, like _this._ ”  
  
There was a loud, unsettling organic _snap_ as he demonstrated, and two slightly less loud but equally unsettling organic _snaps_ as the apprentices followed suit. The Findsmaster spoke again.  
  
“Thd y’bsst fft th’ntdduh grrd— _Sscrd Vzhnry Mssts!_ ” Quickly he pulled off his mask and repositioned it with another _snap._ “There, better. Humblest apologies. That is what happens when the mask is incorrectly positioned. Now, to continue. Fit the antenna guard into place so that your antennae and nostrils are fully covered”—there were three slight _snicks_ as the three of them did so—“and ensure that its bottommost tab is securely seated in the mask unit . . . like this . . . there. And now, if everything fits correctly, you should be able to—”  
  
“Apologies for interrupting, but—” It was the junior apprentice who spoke.  
  
“Yes, young one?”  
  
“One of your palps . . .” Her voice softened almost to a whisper as she turned to the senior apprentice and gestured with a small claw toward his mask.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“It is . . . sticking out . . . just a little . . .”  
  
“Oh yes! Very, _very_ important!” exclaimed the Findsmaster as the senior apprentice turned to one side and began to fumble feverishly with his mask. “For the love and mercy of the Sacred Visionary Mists, make sure that the mask is covering your palps completely. Otherwise your sensory setae will be singed clean off by the oxygen fumes. If memory serves, that very thing happened to one of _your ancestors_ once.”  
  
So saying, he tapped the senior apprentice on the shoulder. The younger Gand turned to face him, gave a desultory grunt of acknowledgment, then returned to his negotiations with his mask. The junior apprentice, whose mask was positioned perfectly, lowered her eyes as if in embarrassment.  
  
“There,” said the senior apprentice at last, turning to face the others. “All is done.”  
  
The Findsmaster craned his head close to his student’s face, scrutinizing his mask and antenna guard. “Good, good,” he said at last. “Much better. That should be all, then. To the airlock.”  
  
Waddling slightly under the unaccustomed weight of their gear, the two apprentices rose and followed their teacher into the airlock hatch. The door closed behind them.  
  
“And now you may activate your gas processing units. Oh dear . . .” The Findsmaster leaned close to the senior apprentice, who had just adjusted the controls on the back of his harness. “It looks as though she may need your help again.”  
  
The senior apprentice hurried to the assistance of the junior apprentice, who was struggling to open the carrying pouch on her back. As he unzipped it and began rummaging in search of the processing unit controls, the Findsmaster continued.  
  
  
“Now remember, young ones. These respirator units are your life as long as you are on this mission. Even the slightest damage to them can cause grave injury at best, death at worst, so it is _absolutely imperative_ that you not remove or readjust any part of them for any reason, or allow anyone or anything else to do so. Fortunately the Grenn-Aulun units tend to be well made, with high-quality materials, but one must always consider the possibility that—”  
  
He was cut short by a yelp of discomfort from the junior apprentice and a flurry of apologies from the senior apprentice, whose hands were still fumbling deep within the carrying pouch.  
  
“Is everything in order, you two?”  
  
“He almost pulled off her intake hose,” came the junior apprentice’s barely audible reply.  
  
“It was unintentional,” rasped the senior apprentice hissed as his master shot him a stern glare. “One needs an Advanced Mist Query to find anything in this befoggèd—ah, there it is.”  
  
There was a slight _click_ from within the depths of the pouch. The senior apprentice withdrew his hands and zipped it closed.  
  
“Thank you graciously,” she said.  
  
“It is nothing,” he said.  
  
The Findsmaster took this as his cue to activate the airlock controls. He stood in thought as the Gandlike ammoniac atmosphere hissed slowly out of the small room. Certainly there was something else he had planned to say to the two apprentices before they all set out on their mission, but fog take him if he could remember any of it now.  
  
Instead he looked at them: they were now looking at each other. Two pairs of orblike compound eyes—one blazing silver, one burnished gold—were locked onto each other with luminous steadiness. And that tiny, faint _clinking_ sound—was that the sound of mandibles clicking cheerfully behind metal?  
  
The airlock switched off; the outer hatch opened. The Findsmaster waved one hand over his students’ heads in a gesture of blessing. There really and truly was nothing more for him to say now except the customary parting benison:  
  
“May the Mists show you two silly younglings the way.”

**Author's Note:**

> For detailed notes on fanon, influences, etc., see the "Notes" spoiler at the end of [this story's posting on JCF Fanfic](https://boards.theforce.net/posts/53872842). (Yes, I know... but, again, they were long.)


End file.
